Category Archives: Cooking

Take one 4-5 pound chicken. (Usually sold as a whole fryer) Put into a large pot — (I like to use at least an eight quart size) cover with water, add 1 tablespoon salt, 1/2 medium onion, and two or three ribs of celery. Cover and bring to a boil. I usually let it cook on medium for an hour and half to two hours.

Take the cooked chicken and vegetables out of the pot. (I put it into a 9X13 Cake pan and let it cool until you can handle it enough to take it off the bones.) Discard the cooked onion and celery, skin and bones. You should have at least 4-5 cups of chicken from a single fryer. (If you do not, check to see who was snitching your chicken before you got around to taking it off the bone. Chicken cooked like this is good for so many things — chicken sandwiches, chicken salad, chicken-etti. Actually anything that calls for cooked, deboned chicken.)

While the meat is cooling, I like to strain the broth if there are lots of “floaties” in it and skim off excess fat. Put the broth back into the pot, and add about a four cups of corn (I use the home frozen variety) two or three cups of lima beans (If you don’t have home grown ones, be sure to buy Fordhook limas in the supermarket) a cup of chopped celery, 1/2 cup chopped onion and one carrot shredded and two or three packages of chicken flavored Ramen noodles with the seasoning packets. (I would probably use three, and I usually take my meat mallet and break them up in the package just a little before I put them into the broth.) Bring everything to a boil and let simmer for about 10 minutes. If you want a stronger chicken flavor, you can add some instant chicken stock or some chicken bullion. Add the meat that has been taken off the bones and stir into the soup. (You can cut the meat into whatever size you want it. I like to leave mine chunky.)

It feels like it’s been raining a LOT in Delaware. I’ve always loved rainy days, and (usually) I’m the one who is delighted when I look out and there are clouds and it’s cool enough to justify running the pellet stove one more day.

The asparagus has started to grow prolifically I look at the shoots, growing so tall in the wet and spring and wonder, briefly, if there is asparagus in Heaven. Nope, I’m pretty sure there isn’t. Especially since you can’t have a crowd of more than two or three without great controversy concerning this vegetable.

I’ve loved asparagus for years, relishing the first picking, often picking it before it was really quite ready, and always taking one of the first pickings to My Sweet Mama. She often “had a hankerin’ for a mess of asparagus” before there was enough in our sparse patch to take to her. But the patch has grown over these last few years and we have plenty this year. I’ve already given away a big bag to a neighbor, and plan to give some more. There is a lot out there and a whole lot more coming.

I don’t quite understand what is wrong this year with my taste buds. I picked the first batch, cooked it up and scarcely tasted it. It felt like it stuck in my throat, then lay in my stomach, heavy, like a bite of bad food. I was pretty sure there wasn’t anything wrong with it, and was gratified when Daniel and the rest of my household ate it up. The next picking, The Offspringin’s grilled to go with an early spring cookout. There wasn’t an abundance, and grilled asparagus has never tempted me, so I wasn’t a bit jealous when they ate that. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve picked it, washed it, snapped it, cooked it, and just haven’t wanted to eat it.

I’ve wondered about the phenomenon over the last several weeks, and felt this gnawing sadness at the back of my conscious thought. The coming Mothers’ Day celebration has added to the knot in my throat and the catch in my throat. And then a picture, found inadvertently this week, brought me face to face with the fact that the Mama I’ve had for every single Mother’s day for 62 years is gone. And I cannot even walk into the place that she called home and find any resemblance of Alene Yoder there. I knew that in my head, but somehow, stamped in bright read and changed windows and different flooring, was the proof that things have changed forever and my Mama is gone.

The kitchen when she cooked asparagus and a thousand other things with the touch that she learned from her Mama, has been decimated and remodeled to someone else’s taste. And someone else, who has their own memories and opinions and ways of doing things, will soon be rattling around in my Mama’s house, making it their home. And part of me hates it so much I feel like throwing up.

I know that things have to change. I know that it is probably easier for the house to be completely different if there is going to be different people in it. What am I to expect? That someone who isn’t my Sweet Mama would move into her house and leave it exactly the way she did, and do everything the way she did? How would a clone of my mother really work out in my life and in my emotions? Would it really be helpful? I promise you! NO!!!

And so, I give into the changes that have been made, knowing that it isn’t really up to me anyhow. For me, there is no right, no real choice in this matter, except that I can choose to be happy, to be realistic, to embrace what is mine to remember and to love, to acknowledge that what is most tangible isn’t what is the most real. And to remember happy times of laughter and love and good, good memories that cannot be changed by a sledge hammer and a paint brush.

Mothers’ Day, 2015

And so, Mama, once again, I am so thankful for the Mama I had. I knew that I was going to miss you, and I knew that it was going to be hard. I’m often surprised at the things that bring a fresh stab of grief and make me pensive and quiet. Today I remember a year ago when we had no way of knowing that a short 12 days later, a fall in your bedroom would set the course that would take you away from your sunny kitchen and from us.

I knew I was going to miss you so much, Mama. I just didn’t expect that missing you so much would cause asparagus to taste and smell like grief.

I bought a five dozen case of eggs last week. It’s getting on towards spring, and I like to make pickled (red beet) eggs. I always do this with an eye towards the man of the house. Certain Man does not like this particular delicacy. In fact, I noted in a post back in 2008 that I had to endure persecution when I would “stink of the house” making pickled eggs. (You can read about that here; https://maryannyutzy.wordpress.com/2008/12/29/706/, as well as see a picture of a very young Lem and Jessica Yutzy, get the recipe for red beet eggs, as well as one for Graham Streusel Coffee Cake).

To be honest, not much has changed.

However, that beloved Eldest Brother, Clint Yoder, came to Delaware for a very fast trip this weekend, and he loves pickled eggs, so I weighed my options carefully and decided to make a batch on Tuesday. I usually only make one batch a year, but some years I need more. I suspected that without my Sweet Mama, I wouldn’t need more than one this year, though. She was one who always loved them as well. Perhaps that is one of the reason I make them When the smell of beets and vinegar and cloves and cinnamon is “stinking up the house” it feels like I’m a little girl again, and it is almost Easter and my Sweet Mama is making up a batch of pickled eggs. She always stored them in a big glass gallon jar, and the deep richness shone ruby-red through the refrigerator light at the back of our big old farmhouse fridge. Something about that familiar jar with the same gold lid and the taste of pickled beets say “home.” And so, probably for that reason more than any other, I feel compelled to make them.

Tuesday morning, the morning I decided that they needed to be made, was the same morning that Middle Daughter decided that she needed to replenish the supply of chocolate chip cookies in the freezer. She baked over a hundred cookies while I moved around her and put together the beets. the spices and hardboiled the eggs. The eggs boiled and the beets simmered (well, in this case, pretty much boiled furiously) with the spices and Middle Daughter complained some about the fact that one of the smells that her Daddy hated the most was mingling with one of his favorite smells, that of Chocolate Chip Cookies.

“I know,” I said, trying to comfort her, “but by the time your Daddy gets home, the smell will be somewhat abated, and he will see that you made chocolate chip cookies and that will make him not fuss so much about the pickled eggs. I plan to have them out of sight by then, anyhow.”

We both know that he loves cookies or cake or baked anything with his breakfast. His favorite thing is to put chocolate chip cookies into hot oatmeal and have the chips melt just a bit and then eat everything all together. This is a Yutzy Family thing to do, although I suspect it may have its roots in their Amish heritage. No matter what the baked good is, it is better with milk poured over it, maybe some fruit on top of that, depending on the baked good, but at least milk! Yes, it’s a soggy mess, and yes, it can look pretty mixed up and disgusting, but that’s the way he likes it, and I’ve noticed when I’m with his family, that he’s not the only one that is of this persuasion. I haven’t tried to change him. It really doesn’t hurt anything. And if a man can’t eat what he wants, the way he wants it, and when he wants it, in his own house, it’s a pretty sad state of affairs, if you ask me. So Middle Daughter helps to maintain the supply and he eats chocolate chip cookies with his oatmeal and we are all content. And he doesn’t eat pickled eggs, no matter what the supply, and as long as he isn’t called upon to defend his position, or smell them too long, or have anything to do with them, we are still all content.

And so the morning passed, both cooks accomplished their endeavors and by afternoon, the eggs were in the garage, cooling for the garage refrigerator, and the cookies were baked, packaged in morning breakfast bags of three each and in the freezer, and a plate for munching was sitting on the counter.

Mr. Yutzy was quite pleased with the beautiful cookies. So much so that he didn’t say much about the pickled eggs.

But then there were several occasions to haul them out. My Bible study gals and their children had some after Bible study on Thursday. I had put two dozen eggs in that big gallon jug and I thought there was plenty to share. The eggs and beets were exclaimed over and eaten and the jar went down considerably. I checked my supply and knew that there were still plenty for today’s lunch, but not a whole lot more. Maybe this was one year when I would be able to justify making a second batch!

Today’s lunch was another one of those wonderfully miraculous provisions for me. Eldest Daughter has made Sunday lunch for us twice in the last few weeks, and the Sunday morning difference has been really special. And this week at Bible Study, one of my gals said that she wanted to bring lasagna for lunch today, would it be okay? Do we eat lasagna? I was so excited, I hardly knew how to contain myself! “Yes, we eat lasagna! Yes, it would be okay! Yes, please! Yes, please!” And so it was agreed upon.

She brought the lasagna, baked and ready to reheat, last evening. And with it, a tray of homemade cream puffs.

Wow! What a treat! With all the stuff that I bake, these are something I don’t dabble with. These looked absolutely delectable.

And so, at lunch today we had lasagna, a lovely tossed salad, the making of which was overseen by Middle Daughter, Deborah, Delaware Lima Beans, cooked the way we like them, and what was left of the pickled eggs. Oh, and those cream puffs! It was a wonderful dinner, shared by family and friends. Oldest Brother, Clint Yoder, Eldest Daughter and Beloved Son In Law, along with our granddaughter, and Nephew Josh with his lovely wife, Lawina. We had sweet conversation, enjoyed a dinner that was mostly donated, and got things cleared away in record time. The company was delightful, the food was good, and one of the best parts of all was that the pickled egg jar was depleted of the last egg, and (almost) the last beet.

I looked at my almost empty jar and thought, “Wow! This is one year I get to make another batch. Maybe tomorrow I should get started on that, since Certain Man will be at work, and I can get it done early enough so as to not cause (too much) havoc.

So wish me the best, dear friends. In this house of very little tolerance for the existence of pickled red beet eggs, I’m planning to courageously move forward and see if I can replenish my supply. Easter is still three weeks off. I might even have time for two more batches. Especially is some of you would show up to help eat them.

Pickled Red Beet Egg Eaters Unite! We are just as good as the others! It’s time to let our preferences be heard! Here’s to the glass gallon jar with the ruby red goodness shining through! Here’s to the ones who eat them with relish! May the tribe increase!

“If it’s going to snow tomorrow,” said Certain Man to his wife last evening, “are we going to fry doughnuts?”

CMW, remembering the last time when the only help she had was his, and it was a bigger job than she wanted, said, ‘”Not if it it’s just you and me! I need more help!”

He looked a little hurt and CMW hastened to add that he had helped well, but it’s such a big job! And between mixing and rolling and cutting and frying and dipping and such, it was really a big expenditure of energy. He said no more and she said no more and that was that.

Today, local family came and over the Shanghai game, the subject of frying doughnuts came up again. “Mom, are you going to make doughnuts on this snowy day?” Said one of the offspringin’s.

Before CMW could say a single word, Certain Man uttered a very terse statement. “I asked the same thing and was told that my help wasn’t good enough. So I figured, ‘Oh, well!'”

Great was the general indignant outcry concerning the availability of help and the insistence that we should make doughnuts and how we NEEDED to make doughnuts. I mean, it’s snowing, for pity sakes, doesn’t EVERYONE make doughnuts when it snows? (Sue Kauffman, do you see what you started?!?!?!? Honestly!!!)

So now there is doughnut dough rising, and CMW needs to go and get it rolled out and ready to fry. Doughnuts sound really good to her, but how she wishes there were a way to get them without everything getting into disarray in her clean kitchen, and especially, she wishes there was a way to eat as many as she wanted without getting a pain in her gall bladder, and the lubs (lbs.) on her “Lubber!”